


Unwilling flame

by my_deer_friend



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blood Drinking, Canon Era, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Imprisonment, John is a vampire, Kidnapping, Lams - Freeform, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Starvation, non-con warning mainly for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:40:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27547717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/pseuds/my_deer_friend
Summary: The red-haired boy fights him - they all do - but it is no hassle for John to lift him off the ground and haul him down into the dark, safe cellar.He is already dizzy and disoriented. The sun must have broken the horizon - he feels it in his bones, an instinct that flushes him with fear even as he slams shut the padlock on the door and sinks his fangs into the hot, pale skin of the boy’s neck.The frantic little pulse quivers under his lips.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 26
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An overdue Halloween story. The title is from Alexander Pope's _Eloisa to Abelard_.
> 
> Note: A cautious non-con warning, because Alex is kidnapped and held against his will (but there is no non-consensual sex).

_Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;_

_Sad proof how well a lover can obey!_

_Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;_

_And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain,_

_Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,_

_And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine._

\-- Alexander Pope, _Eloisa to Abelard_

John doesn’t intend to _keep_ the boy.

It’s bad timing. He gets caught up in the tavern, so engrossed by the fervour of the revolutionary talk that it’s almost sunrise before he realises he still needs to feed and get back into his dark, safe cellar. It takes almost none of his supernatural strength to snatch the red-haired student off the street and to clamp a hand over his mouth, causing him to drop the bundle of books he is clutching to his chest. He carries him swiftly and silently down dark alleys as the pre-dawn lightens the sky above him, and manages to slip into the cool sanctuary of his manor house just as the twittering of birds crests to greet the sun.

The boy fights him - they all do - but it is no hassle to lift him off the ground and clamp his arms down against his sides and carry him down into the cellar.

John is already dizzy and disoriented. The sun must have broken the horizon. He feels it in his bones, an instinct that flushes him with fear even as he slams shut the padlock on the cellar door and sinks his fangs into the hot, pale skin of the boy’s neck. 

The frantic little pulse quivers under his lips.

But he doesn’t have enough time to drink the boy dry, so he takes only the sip he needs to sustain himself for the day and slips into his heavy stone sarcophagus just as he starts to descend into that magical sun-induced unconsciousness.

When he wakes and rises from his deathless sleep, he’s forgotten about the boy, so he’s startled when something heavy and solid swings at him and thuds sharply against his head. It doesn’t really hurt, certainly does no damage, but he is so surprised that he takes a step back from the terrified boy.

His auburn hair has come loose around his shoulders, an echo of the two little red streaks on his neck. His violet eyes are wide and white, but sharp, and his small thin hands are clutching a piece of broken wood in front of him like a sword. Courageous little thing! John sees that his fingertips are raw and bloody and _delicious_ \- he must have torn them ragged trying to escape.

He feels the little twist in his belly, a ghoulish echo of what he remembers, long ago, was called hunger. He hasn’t fed properly in days. He’s famished.

But this boy would make a poor meal, small and half-starved as he is. And John remembers him from the tavern: one of the smart students who was saying potent and incendiary things against the British crown. It would be a shame to destroy such a bright young mind just for the sake of an unfulfilling supper - at least, before he’s had the chance to explore it.

So he slips wordlessly out through the door, locking it carefully behind him again, and up to the street and to an inn; it’s always easiest to feed where people are drunk and rowdy. He sucks a young lady dry, not bothering to memorise her face, and hastens back to his home and the strange boy he has accidentally trapped inside it. 

John hasn’t had a proper conversation in some time, because he tries not to give people the opportunity to remember him, and all the talk of rebellion and fighting has excited him. He knows this boy would make a good partner for such a discussion. It is worth the small effort at restraint to try.

The boy is huddled in a dark, far corner of the cellar when he returns, as though he hopes John’s night-sensitive eyes won’t spot him. 

John approaches him, steady and calm, and stops a few yards away. He crouches down.

“I’m John. What’s your name?” 

The boy stares back defiantly. “Are you going to kill me?”

John considers this for a second, and decides, “No.” At least, not for the moment.

“You _bit_ me.”

“Yes.”

“Are you some kind of demon?”

John smiles, baring his fangs. “That is close enough to the truth. But I was once like you.”

“Let me go.”

“No.” John shakes his head sadly. He cannot risk the boy telling others that he, and creatures like him, exist among the human flocks. “That will not be possible.”

After that, the boy crosses his arms and glowers and does not say another word, no matter how many questions John asks him. Eventually he gets bored of his silent companion, so he goes back outside and walks the streets, listening to gossip and rumour. Conflict is brewing.

When he returns at dawn to his secret room, the boy startles at his sudden entry and backs away again. But John just wishes him a good morning and slips into his cold stone bed.

The next night passes in the same manner. The boy is silent and defiant, but John can smell the fear on him, and it’s such a potent and enticing flavour that he goes out and feeds again - just to be sure he does not accidentally hurt the boy before he can have a proper conversation with him. Upon his return, his questions and entreaties are met with stony silence again, so John slips upstairs and reads in the spacious library until it is time for him to go to sleep again.

On the third night, things are different. John wakes to find the boy curled up and shivering, looking small and weak and like his courage has fled him.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

Finally, the boy speaks. “I’m cold,” he says. “And hungry.”

Ah. It’s been so long since he was human that John has forgotten about these basic needs. “I will bring you food and clothing. But only if you tell me your name.”

The boy hesitates for a long moment before he bargains it away. “Alexander.”

John smiles happily and hurries out. It is late autumn, so there is fresh food aplenty. He buys baskets of fruits and breads and vegetables that should be passable, and a broad, forest-green wool cloak with a fur lining that he hopes will suit the boy. He brings back these gifts and places them on the ground, then steps back. Alexander pounces on the food like a famished dog, though he keeps his wary eyes on John as he eats, and when he’s finished he runs his thin hand through the fur of the cloak. 

“Do you like it?” John asks.

Alexander pulls it around his shoulders. “It must have cost a fortune.”

John shrugs; money is meaningless to him. 

\-----

John remembers to get food for Alexander after that. He brings back staples and delicacies and whatever interesting things he can find in the New York port, which bustles with activity and opportunities to feed well into the night. 

After a few days, he coaxes Alexander into making some specific requests - wine, and gloves, and apples - and when he brings them back Alexander looks surprised and a little suspicious. 

They talk, too, a little more every day. Alexander does not reveal anything about himself, but he speaks willingly enough about politics and classical literature, and asks eagerly for news of rebellion.

The fear-smell starts to recede. 

\-----

One night a few weeks later, after a good long talk and after Alexander has finished a bottle of wine, he asks, “Do you have any books?”

“Oh, plenty. Upstairs in the library.”

Alexander’s eyes flash. “Upstairs?”

“Yes. In the main part of the house.”

Alexander bites down on his lip, and then asks, “Could I not stay there, instead of in the cellar?”

John frowns. “You will try to escape.”

“I will not. Please?”

“Let me consider it.”

“Perhaps, in the meantime, you could bring me books here? And candles to read by?”

Fire is almost as frightening as sunlight to John, but he reasons that Alexander would not be able to burn him if he is safely in his sarcophagus. “Very well.”

John goes up to the library and picks out some volumes he thinks Alexander might like - Pope, Ovid, a legal treatise, because Alexander seems interested in the law. He finds old, dusty candles and a flint in a drawer and brings the whole bundle back down with him. When he reenters the cellar, he notices with some surprise how damp and cold it is in here, and considers that it would be much more pleasant to sit and talk in one of the beautiful sitting rooms upstairs.

Alexander takes the books with more delight than even the food, straight from John’s hands.

\-----

When he wakes the next night, Alexander is reading by candlelight, his hair catching the light of the flame. But the tiny flicker of fire sends a shiver down John’s spine.

“Put that out,” he orders.

“But I’m reading.”

“I said, put it out!”

Alexander pouts, but he blows out the candle.

\-----

The situation is not tenable, and after some thought, John finds a blacksmith and a goldsmith who are willing to meet with him after dark. He commissions them, and a few nights later he returns to the cellar holding a fine, strong chain plated in shimmering gold.

“What is that?” Alexander asks, suddenly wary.

“It’s for you,” John explains happily, “So that we can sit together upstairs.”

He tries to approach, but Alexander shrinks back. “Don’t you dare bring that near me!”

“But I thought you’d be pleased. If you refuse to wear it, then I won’t be able to let you leave the cellar.”

“I don’t care. I will _not_ be chained up.”

\-----

Alexander defies him with a fresh wave of silence. John considers withholding his food, but realises that would be cruel, so he simply takes away the books instead. It takes just one week before Alexander’s resolve breaks and he stretches his wrist out for John to secure and lock the chain around it. John feels the fluttering pulse underneath the hot skin as he works, and his fangs ache to bite into it, but he masters himself; he has worked too hard to earn Alexander’s trust just to throw it all away now. He holds tight to the other end as they leave the cellar and emerge into the house proper.

He leads Alexander through to the beautiful library, which has shelves all around the main floor, plush armchairs and couches, and a little mezzanine level with yet more books that is reached by a wrought-iron spiral staircase. There are large windows on two walls, but they are covered by heavy, dusty blue-velvet drapes.

While Alexander is looking around in astonishment, John locks the other end of the chain around the ironwork of the little staircase. The position gives Alexander enough length to reach most of the shelves, and John pushes the most comfortable settee closer, so that Alexander can sit and read, or sleep. 

John hopes he’ll like this more than spending the daytime down in the cellar. He himself fears and loathes the sun, but he has a distant memory of a time when it was not like that - and perhaps a little sunlight would bring colour back to his Alexander, who has paled like a dead thing in the dark.

 _His_ Alexander? He supposes the label is accurate enough, given that he will never set the boy free again.

\-----

“Do you think…?” Alexander says cautiously, a few days later. “Could I have a bath?” 

He has become more daring at asking for the things that he needs, perhaps enlivened by his new surroundings. John looks him over and sees that he is indeed filthy, after weeks spent in the cellar. 

“Of course. Tomorrow.”

That night, John pays a small fortune to a young maid to come by the house the following evening and heat water for the bath, and to retrieve the clothing from the tailor that he has ordered in secret for Alexander.

He fears that she will abscond with the money, but the girl shows up and performs the tasks he has assigned diligently, and as her reward he drinks a little of her blood but not so much that she will die from it.

He fetches Alexander from the library, unfastening the chain from the staircase but not from around his wrist, and leads him upstairs to the steaming bath. 

There is a moment of confusion.

“Will you--?” Alexander starts, looking down at his wrist.

“No. And I will not leave you alone, either.” 

“Ah.”

Alexander hesitates, then begins to undress. John studies him, long since devoid of any genuine sexual desire but curious about the shape of his friend. He has a fine form, if a little thin and smeared with dirt. Long legs, wiry arms, long and graceful fingers. Freckles on his shoulders and forearms from long-ago days spent in the sun. 

He climbs naked into the bath, and the water goes cloudy with dirt, but it does not seem to bother him. He languishes and submerges as much of his body as he can at once, sighing with contentment. John sits nearby on a stool, running the end of the gold chain through his fingers absently like a rosary, and smiling as Alexander shifts and hums happily in the water. They do not speak for a long time.

Then John cannot stand the quiet any more.

“May I wash your hair?”

Alexander shrugs. “If you like.”

John fetches a little bucket and sluices water over Alexander’s hair, then works in some soap carefully, making an effort not to pull at the matted tangles too sharply. Alexander relaxes into the touch and closes his eyes.

“Tell me, Alexander - do you have any family?” He has asked this before and not received a reply.

Alexander frowns a little. “To be frank - no. None worth mentioning, at least.”

“So there is no one who misses you?”

For some reason, Alexander is content to speak tonight. “My classmates, perhaps, though I only recently arrived in the city. Friends from home.”

“And where is home?”

“I grew up in the West Indian colonies.”

John shudders, imagining heat and sun and ocean trapping him on a desolate spit of land. “Do you miss it?”

“No,” he says frankly. “It was stifling and backwards. The city is far more sophisticated. I had hoped,” he sighs deeply, “To make my name and my fortune here.”

Alexander does not accuse him directly, but John feels regret and defensiveness well up in equal measures. “I am sorry,” he says eventually.

Alexander does not reply. John rinses his hair carefully. 

“Are you a devil?” Alexander asks after a pause.

“No,” John says. “I do not know the proper name, but I was not always like this. Many years ago - centuries, now - I was a boy. We lived in France, I think - though memories from that time are hazy - until one night a creature stole me away and turned me into the thing I am now.”

“And is that what you plan for me?” Alexander says, and although he masks his alarm well, John can smell the sudden rise of his panic.

“No,” he says firmly. “I was not given the choice, but I will not pass on this state to anyone - even if I knew how to do it, and even if they begged it of me.”

“I see.” After another long, quiet moment, Alexander speaks again. “When you bit me, that first night,” he says hesitantly, “It felt - good.” 

“Yes.” John knows that the mystic power of his fangs often causes a feeling of euphoria in the victim. 

“Could you do it again?”

“I--” He has never been asked this before. “I suppose. There is a risk, though. If I am too hungry, or if I become overwhelmed, I might not be able to stop.”

“And then I would die?”

“Yes.”

“Could you control yourself now?”

He considers carefully. “I have fed earlier tonight. It should not be a problem.”

Alexander pulls the damp hair away from one side of his neck. “Then do it.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

John reaches out with delicate fingers and strokes along the tender skin, searching for a vein. Alexander trembles. His heart rate increases.

John lowers his lips to his chosen spot and kisses softly. Alexander’s skin is scalding from his inner heat and the warm water. John is still a little uncertain if he should do this; he cannot last recall when blood was offered to him freely, and he understands there is a sacredness to the gesture that he must honour. At a loss, he kisses a trail down the side of Alexander’s neck and along his shoulder, then back up - to the spot where the pulse is the closest to the surface of the skin, pounding like a melody in John’s ears.

He parts his lips and extends his fangs, then leans in and bites carefully.

Alexander hisses at the first burst of pain, but almost immediately groans when the pleasure sweeps him up, and John sees his hands tighten around the edges of the bathtub. The gold chain clinks merrily.

He holds this position for a moment, until he can no longer resist a taste, and then sucks in a small mouthful of hot blood. 

Oh! When he first drank from Alexander, the flavour was nothing special - a little boozy, filling enough, but bland. Now, with his much improved diet, Alexander's blood tastes richer, headier, full of the sweet flavour of late-autumn fruit and the earthiness of wine and grain. 

Alexander is making delightful little breathless moans and murmurs. John sees one hand unclench from the side of the tub and slip under the water, between his legs.

Fascinated, John takes another deep draught, and Alexander groans lewdly as his hand begins to move, stroking himself as he descends into a fugue of erotic pleasure. He throws his head back further, and John reaches to grip at his hair, pulling his neck taut. He takes a final drink, a long delicious sucking sip, and Alexander cries out in wordless pleasure as his legs tense and he pushes his hips up, shooting his release onto his hand and into the water. He falls back down, limbless and panting, and John pulls his fangs out. He laps at the little beads of blood that ooze from the punctures, unwilling to waste a single drop, as Alexander falls into a contented doze. 

John watches his Alexander indulgently for a little while, then rouses him and helps him out of the bath, drying off his skin carefully as he sways unsteadily on his feet. Ah, perhaps he took a little too much; he must be careful, if Alexander permits this again, not to be too greedy.

He dresses Alexander in the new clothes - the boy is too dazed to properly appreciate them - and then carries him back downstairs to the library, where he lays hm on the settee and tethers him securely to the staircase. John drapes the wool cloak over his unresisting body, and presses a soft kiss to the damp auburn hair at Alexander’s temple. 

What a fragile, precious thing he is!

And how lucky John is, to have found such a magnificent friend.


	2. Chapter 2

John did not realise he was lonely until his Alexander came into his life.

Now he wants to be close to Alexander always, to be warmed by him, to hear his laugh and - when he is allowed - to take careful little sips of his blood. Separation becomes painful, manifesting as an ache deep in his core that he cannot put words to, perhaps as some echo of an emotion he no longer has the capacity to feel.

He wonders if the sensation is enhanced by how frequently Alexander allows John to drink from him. When John does it, it is never to nourish himself, only to savour. And savour he does. He has not had a companion like this before, so John has never really paid much heed to the subtle shifts in flavour that the blood can carry. It is a marvel to notice it.

As winter sets in, for example, the notes of sun-ripened fruit recede, and Alexander’s blood begins to taste like rich beef-fat and dried fruit, like spiced spirits and butter, like apple and smoke.

The flavour also seems to change with his humour. John discovers that Alexander has two governing moods; and he shifts between them with no rhyme that John can determine, sometimes even during the course of an evening’s conversation. When he is in a good mood, he is animated and talkative, and his blood tastes hotter, sweeter, fresher somehow. On nights when he is angry and sullen, it is bitter and heavy - not unpleasant, exactly, but thick and oily on his tongue. 

But the most wonderful, most mouthwatering notes come out when Alexander is in the throes of passion. John tastes it often enough. Alexander offers himself frequently when he is craving the stimulation of John’s bite to amplify and enhance his pleasure. John does not remember the feeling himself - if, indeed, he ever even experienced it when he was a mere human - so Alexander’s hunger for it is a curiosity. Perhaps it is a driving need just like his own compulsion to drink blood. 

Whatever it may be, John finds that the novelty of Alexander begging him for this service does not wear thin. It is a welcome change to be needed, especially in those long stretches when Alexander is in a foul mood, and every time is a delight. But John can only permit it if he is full from feeding earlier, because he finds that he is vulnerable to Alexander’s whimpered pleas and groans, and all too eager to take more sips than is prudent when his friend is begging brokenly for him to do it.

It is after one too-enthusiastic encounter that John discovers Alexander’s blood is somehow, unfathomably, even more delicious _after_ his release. It is a flavour unlike anything he can describe - a heavenly ambrosia - and he instantly craves more of it. It takes a feat of immense willpower to pull his fangs away in that moment. He is left gasping, and the blood tingles in his mouth for hours afterwards.

\-----

Alexander angers John when he won’t stop insisting on being given quill and ink.

“But who ever will you write to?” John asks, at the edge of his temper. 

“It doesn’t have to be _to_ anyone. I just want to write. Why is that such a problem?”

John can think of a dozen reasons - secret messages, letters to friends or the newspapers, or even just the chance for Alexander to express his darkest, cruellest thoughts. But there is only one reason that matters, in the end. “I have already said no.”

“But, John! What harm could it possibly do?”

“No!” John leaps up in a flash of rage and slams his hand on the table, and Alexander flinches away and draws in on himself, eyes wide. “ _No,_ Alexander. A hundred times no. Do not test me.”

Alexander glowers at him, but he doesn’t ask again.

\-----

At John’s urging, Alexander adopts a nocturnal schedule, and they soon fall into a comfortable routine. John rises just as the sun sets, and leaves to feed or fetch provisions. When he returns, he wakes Alexander gently, offering him something to eat from the market or, as the nights get colder, a mug of steaming mulled wine or coffee from the local tavern that John rushes home with before it can cool.

Alexander is always groggy when he wakes, like he has not had enough sleep, even after nights when John has not drunk from him.

“It is hard to sleep during the daytime,” Alexander grumbles.

“Is it not dark enough? I could order new drapes.”

“No, that’s not it.” Alexander’s eyes flash angrily. “It just isn’t natural.”

Alexander’s temper is worsened with lack of sleep, so one morning not long after this exchange, John tells Alexander to climb into the stone sarcophagus with him, thinking that it might be easier for him to get a proper day’s sleep in that cool, safe darkness. Selfishly, he also delights at the comfort of sleeping through the day in Alexander’s hot arms, to save himself the painful separation he endures each morning. Alexander balks at the suggestion, but John orders him to do it, so he does.

It is a mistake. When John wakes again at sunset, Alexander is shivering and sobbing and curled as far away from him as he can get, and he lets out a choked yelp when John opens his eyes and turns his head to look at him. As soon as John lets him out, Alexander begs to be taken upstairs, and then huddles on a far corner of his settee and trembles the whole night long. He does not let John sit close to him, so John takes a seat on the plush armchair across the library from the settee and reads quietly to himself, looking up occasionally into wide, frightened eyes.

He leaves Alexander chained upstairs in the library when he goes to sleep after that, and doesn’t make him sleep in the coffin again.

\-----

One early evening, John steps into the library before departing to see if Alexander is perhaps already awake. But he leaps back in fright a moment later - the velvet curtains have been pulled open, and Alexander is dozing on the settee in the last dull glow of dusk. John hisses like a wild thing, then pulls his coat up over his face and storms back inside, dragging the curtains violently closed and almost tearing them from the rails.

Alexander startles awake at the noise. “John? What are you doing?”

“You must not let the light in!” John shouts, entirely angry. “How ignorant-- How careless of you!”

“But it’s night already.”

“That doesn’t matter! I forbade you from opening the curtains. Can you not obey even this simple instruction?”

Alexander folds his arms, and his eyes narrow angrily. “I have no choice but to obey you, since I am your prisoner!”

John sighs deeply. “I must keep you here for your own safety.”

“The only danger I see here is _you._ You suck the blood straight from my veins, John! You chain me like your dog. You deny me the most basic things just so that I become desperate for your company. You are a pathetic wretch, and I hate you!”

This little outburst cools John’s anger. He walks over and sits down on the end of the settee. “Alexander, please, you must--”

But Alexander kicks out at him. “I may not be able to leave, but you cannot force me to be happy. Go away! I will open the curtains as I please, if only to make sure that I am guaranteed a moment’s peace from you!”

John sighs. He must be patient. He stands to get out of range of Alexander’s kicking legs, and looks down at him. “When your temper has cooled, perhaps we can have a more rational conversation.”

Alexander flings a cushion at his head. “Leave, you monster!”

John shifts out of its way, shakes his head, and does as he’s asked. 

\-----

Alexander gets hungry enough two nights later to call John back and apologise. And because he is a generous friend, John forgives him, and holds him gently as he cries.

\-----

Alexander is splayed out on the settee, naked, his bound hand straining against the chain above his head and his free hand working frantically to stroke himself. John kneels on the floor at his side and nips a trail of teasing bites along his inner thigh. 

“For god’s sake, bite!” Alexander mewls, his back arching as his passion and frustration rise in equal measure.

“Not yet,” John murmurs into his skin, because tonight he does not want to waste his sips; he wants whole mouthfuls of that perfect flavour that appears only after Alexander’s climax.

“I cant-- Fuck, please!” Alexander cries, and there are genuine tears in his eyes.

“No,” John says firmly. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Alexander stills his hand and groans in restless frustration. He looks around himself, then reaches his freed hand up to the tethered one, which is draped above his head. “Wind the chain around my wrists,” he whispers. “So that I cannot move my arms.”

John frowns thoughtfully and stands up. He doesn’t have another lock, but he wraps the golden chain carefully around the free wrist, then loops it between both arms a few times.

Alexander tests it. “Fine enough. Now, touch me with your hand, like I was doing.”

He nods; he’s watched this enough times to have a good idea of what is needed. 

John sits down at the other end of the settee and pulls Alexander’s leg up so that his calf is resting on John’s shoulder. He places a gentle kiss on the inside of the knee and reaches down to wrap his hand around the stiffened shaft, and like all of Alexander’s skin, it burns him pleasantly. He tests a few motions, then finds a speed and pressure that seem to work well, judging by Alexander’s renewed sounds of arousal. 

The feel of the blood thudding against his palm is almost enough to crack his resolve.

Alexander seems to find this arrangement stimulating, because it does not take long for the tenor of his cries to increase and, soon after, for his seed to gush forth.

At last! John does not hesitate another second before he leans down and bites into the tenderest place at the top of Alexander’s inner thigh - and he has taken three deep, sucking mouthfuls before he is even fully conscious of it. It is only Alexander’s little moan of pain, and the weak rattling sound of the chain, that brings his awareness back.

“Stop - it hurts!” Alexander breathes.

That isn’t right; John’s bites should cause only pleasure. 

He steals another heady sip before he retracts his fangs, then laps at the blood that oozes out in their wake. It’s _perfect,_ overwhelmingly delightful. It costs him a considerable effort not to bite in again, but he cannot help scraping his fangs along that tender skin and licking up the little beads of blood that erupt.

Alexander groans at the contact, draws his legs together and curls them protectively into his stomach. 

“I was too… sensitive. Don’t do that again.”

John frowns, the heady flavour still drowning his senses. “But, Alexander--”

“No!” He folds in on himself. “Leave me alone.”

John sighs. “As you wish.”

He forgets to unbind Alexander’s wrists, and it is only when he hears his friend fighting with the chain later that he comes in and quietly unbinds them, not saying anything.

\-----

After many months, Alexander’s boredom eclipses his fear, and he dares to ask for chances to leave the house.

At first, John does not even consider it - it is a terrible risk, more to Alexander than to himself. If Alexander were to attempt an escape, or to cry out for help, John would need to silence him swiftly.

But eventually, after much persuading, John decides to indulge his sweet friend and takes him out to the theatre. He tucks the gold chain discreetly along Alexander’s sleeve and stays close the entire night, and Alexander behaves perfectly, making no hint of an attempt to flee or draw attention. He watches the performance with wide eyes - admitting that he has never seen a play performed before - and thanks John with a kiss to the cheek and his bared neck once they are back home.

After that, they take more trips together into the city, and even if Alexander is biding his time or plotting an escape, he never finds the opportunity to carry it out. 

\-----

In spring, Alexander’s blood tastes like green things and cool water and freshness.

\-----

“John,” Alexander says, as the weather is turning to stifling summer and the night hours become frustratingly short, “Have I not proven that you can trust me?” 

“Of course I trust you, Alexander,” John says with a smile.

“Then - will you not at last let me go?”

John shakes his head sadly. “You know that I cannot.”

“Why not?”

They have been over this, but John repeats the reasons patiently. “The risk is too high. You know that creatures like me exist, and that would put us in great danger.”

“So I must be forced to live with you in the dark, forever?”

“I’m afraid it cannot be helped. I have tried to make it as pleasant and comfortable as I can. If there is something else you need--”

“No!” Alexander heaves out a sob. “I can’t live like this, John - like a chained animal.”

The tears twist at his dead heart. “I’m sorry. There is no other way.”

“Well, then--” Alexander waves a hand frantically. “If you truly won’t ever let me go, then _end_ it. Please. Just drink me dry and be done with me.”

“I won’t do that, Alexander. You are my friend.”

“ _Please!_ ”

John frowns and shakes his head.

But Alexander begs him to do it, over and over, so intent and manic that John stands up angrily and flees the room, leaving Alexander crying and shouting after him and straining at the end of his gold leash.

\-----

Alexander does not ask for death again, after that.

\-----

It takes a week before Alexander will speak to him again, so John spends much of his time outside the house where he does not have to deal with the silence between them. After the insurrection in Boston, the city is tensed and ready to leap like a rabbit. John smells blood and adrenaline in the air, and it is a heady cocktail.

As the heat of summer crests, Alexander’s mood finally thaws - perhaps because, in defiance of John’s instruction, he sits in the fearful beams of sunlight all day long. 

\-----

On the night of his great calamity, John is part-way to the front door when he hears Alexander calling out to him from the library.

“Stay,” Alexander says, smiling sweetly and extending his chained arm. His hair is down and he is dressed only in a loose shirt, which hangs open to expose the perfect stretch of ivory skin at his throat. “Please, my dear friend.”

John hesitates. He has just woken for the evening, and he is famished. Alexander asked him to stay last night, too, and the little sip he had allowed himself to take was hardly enough to quench his deep hunger. 

But the sight of skin and Alexander’s eagerness for his company are too tempting. He can stay for a little while. There is no harm in that. Alexander has been sullen and withdrawn for so long that any chance to bask in his glittering smile is not one that John wants to waste.

And, oh, his friend is eager for affection tonight.

As soon as John sits down beside him, Alexander shifts and climbs into his lap, wrapping one arm around his waist and running the other hand through John’s hair. Alexander leans forward and nuzzles into the hair behind John’s ear, which brings his tender neck right to John’s lips.

From this close, John can smell wine and knows Alexander must have been drinking. Is this all a gift for him? An apology for Alexander’s poor temper and ingratitude? John loves the heady rush of alcohol in his blood, and the warm gentle press of his friend’s touch - and Alexander knows this. 

“You like the taste of me after I have pleasured myself, do you not?” Alexander purrs in his ear.

Oh! He hasn’t been permitted this in months. He hums a low, eager affirmation.

“Then you shall have it,” Alexander says, and reaches between their bodies for his stiffening member.

John hums again, then runs his tongue along the thudding vein in Alexander’s neck.

His friend shudders. 

“Dear God!” Alexander moans and quickens his pace.

John licks up again, then trails kisses back down. “I do not want to hurt you,” he murmurs.

“I don’t care,” Alexander groans, then says more quietly, “Forgive me all of my sins.”

John presses his lips to the tender place where Alexander's neck meets his collarbone. “All is forgiven, my dear boy.”

He feels Alexander’s trembling thighs press against his hips, and the hand in his hair tighten. “And I beg that you accept me into your loving arms.”

“Always, Alexander,” John whispers, his mind swimming from the deafening thud of that divine blood, just a hair’s breadth from his famished fangs.

“Amen,” Alexander whispers, and then chokes out his cry of pleasure.

John cannot wait a moment longer. He darts one hand into Alexander’s hair to pull his head to one side, and slips the other around his back to press firmly against his shoulder. He bites. 

Then there is only bliss, and the distant feeling of Alexander bringing both hands to his head to draw John closer, and even further away the sound of whimpers - or perhaps sobs.

Oh, but the taste, the flavour is _everything_ \- impossibly it is even sweeter than his memory of it, all the better for having been denied to him so long. He should not keep feeding this greedily, but Alexander is gripping tightly to his hair to hold his mouth in place and groaning desperate encouragements for him to _drink, drink, drink_ \- and how could he refuse when Alexander tastes hot and sweet like a summer sunset?

John loses his grip on the rational part of his mind as the beastly thing inside him surfaces. He releases himself to the sensation, to the sounds, to the _taste_ and movement and the weight of his delicious friend in his lap. He drink deep, _deep,_ hums and sucks with all his strength in a blissful fugue until the gush of blood becomes a thin trickle and--

And--

\--no!

No, no, no! He rips his mouth away, leaving two livid gashes. Alexander is boneless in his arms. Pale - too pale, deathly white. John gives him a little shake. Alexander’s grip loosens and his arms drop to his sides. His head lolls back on his neck. His eyes are glassy and hollow.

Dead eyes.

Not dead like John’s, but dead like things that are buried in dirt.

How could he have done this?

John holds the limp little body against his chest as it cools, filled with a sharp and confusing sadness. Alexander is not inside there anymore. It’s just an empty shell now, without the sparkle of Alexander’s eyes and mind to animate it. Even the luster of his hair is diminished, as though John has sucked even this radiant colour dry.

He cannot cry - John doesn’t remember how - but he lies down on the settee and holds what is left of Alexander close to his chest until it is dangerously close to sunrise.

He leaves the body there, remembering how frightened Alexander had been to sleep the day through with him, and when he wakes again after the passing of the sun, he faces the aching realisation that all of this was not a dream, and that Alexander is dead beyond even his reach.

He undoes the gold chain, carries the lifeless thing that was Alexander up to the roof and lays the remains of his sweet friend under the moonlight, wrapped in a white linen sheet he finds in one of the dusty closets. He strips away the bloodstained shirt and allows the fiery hair to fan and flutter in the early-autumn breeze.

He pays coins to urchin boys to bring white lilies to the house, and by the next evening there is a stack of them on the porch. He carries all of them up to the roof, and arranges them all around Alexander’s body like a bed.

He takes the dead hand into his undead one, and converses with his Alexander for the last time - it reminds him of when they first met and Alexander refused to speak to him. John tells him how sorry he is about the terrible thing he did, but that he is not sorry that he had snatched Alexander off the street a year ago and kept him and cared for him as well as he could manage. He thanks Alexander for reminding him about happy things, and sunlight, and cleverness; for offering his precious blood so willingly; for bringing something like life into his house. 

And he forgives Alexander for the cruel trick that he played to make John drink him dry, because he knows how badly his boy must have been suffering if he was prepared to go to those lengths. He doesn’t think Alexander intended to _hurt_ him, only that he was in too much despair to continue living. John understands, now that he feels the same way.

He speaks softly about things that he remembers from his first life - family, duty, kindness, grief - and about music and art and poetry. He spends time silently, too, watching the passage of the moon overhead. And every once in a while, he lifts Alexander’s hand to his lips and kisses it, even though it no longer burns him like living flame. The skin is as cold as his.

The sky slowly lightens from black to grey, and John feels the instinctive terror to flee and hide in his dark hole. But he grips tight to Alexander’s hand against the fear, and hums him a gentle lullaby that he remembers the tune of, but not the words.

His skin starts to tingle as the grey sky turns blue and then pale yellow. Only Alexander’s touch is enough to keep him steady. 

John has nothing left to say, so he lays himself down beside the silent body, among the lilies, and clutches Alexander’s hand to his chest, and kisses the fluttering red curls.

He sees the first rays of sunlight catch in Alexander’s hair and turn it to spun gold, like the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, far eclipsing the magnificence of the sun itself. 

He is surprised not to feel pain when the sun hits his skin and starts to burn it into ash. He hopes Alexander did not feel pain either, in the end, and that he has managed to find his way to a place of peace and light - even though John knows he is beyond god’s sight, and that there is no hope that he will meet Alexander there. 

He smiles and thinks only of Alexander’s laugh as his body burns away, as the breeze catches the fine ash and covers his friend in one final embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry!

**Author's Note:**

> Have a [drawing](https://www.instagram.com/p/CHCiBE1j218/) of vampire-John too!


End file.
